


for thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings that then I scorn to change my state with kings

by IllaPrometheus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family, Family Feels, Family Reunions, First War with Voldemort, Indian Potter Family (Harry Potter), Loss, Magic, Necromancy, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Potter Family-centric (Harry Potter), Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Second War with Voldemort, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25517470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IllaPrometheus/pseuds/IllaPrometheus
Summary: By the time the Ministry of Magic finally got around to the idea that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back, Fleamont Potter II had been attacked no less then thirteen times. Two years later, he found himself at the top of the Dark Lord’s hit list. Hiding, it seemed, was his best option. That was, until his long dead, baby cousin appeared in his living room, drenched in blood and screaming.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	for thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings that then I scorn to change my state with kings

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: 
> 
> I only own, Fleamont Morgan Potter II, Arya Kapil, Julius Shacklebolt, Jagadish Ojal and any other characters who are not part of the Harry Potter/Wizarding World Universe. 
> 
> This story is an M simply for the violence. There are no sex scenes in his fanfic. This story is a work of fiction, and none of the events, or characters written about are real. 
> 
> In this chapter, I have gone back and edited a few lines to make it flow with the rest of the story. 
> 
> All credit of the Wizarding World/Harry Potter Universe, belong to J. K. Rowling.
> 
> Illa Prometheus 

**Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,**

**Haply I think on thee, and then my state,**

**Like to the lark at break of day arising**

**From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;**

**For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings**

**That then I scorn to change my state with kings.**

**SONNET 29, WILLAM SHAKESPEARE**

* * *

**Prologue**

  
On the outside, Godric’s Hollow had barely changed in the half-a-day since He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named attacked the Potters’, and yet for the magical residence, the village pulsed with dark magic. It danced along with the wind, sinking deep into thatched homes and Tudor architecture with a peal of childlike laughter. It radiated brightly near the church in an ionic turn of brutality and wept over the cottages in a ball of passionate fury. Nevertheless, as the wizard approached the home that had once belonged to his cousin, he felt sick. 

  
The cobblestone cottage which he’d spent many a Yule and Litha was burning. Black smoke curled up around the nursery, twisting and flickering amongst fallen timber and whitewashed walls. The roof, smouldered, the hay twisting into black clumps as ebony fires spat. The garden and creeping ivy were curled up in on itself, brown and so very dead. Euphemia would be rolling in her grave. 

  
A hubbub of witches and wizards hung around the gate, peering through the ruined wards, while off to the side, a few muggles curiously glanced over the garden wall. A photographer was running around next to a young blonde reporter, and the wizard’s lips curled as he recognised her. Ironically, Rita Skeeter was the first person to notice him, and her soft green eyes rounded as he approached. She took a step back, knocking into the photographer. He yelped, as Rita stepped on his foot, and turned around so suddenly, that the various hangers-on, looked up. 

  
“What do you think you're doing, you stupid-”

  
Rita thwacked the photographer’s arm, a shaking hand pointing in the direction of the wizard. Heads turned, eyes following the direction that the reporter was indicating. The whispering stopped. Mouths dropped open. All eyes were now on the wizard. The camera flashed. The wizard’s vision flickered, basking in the bright light. He scowled. Now that everyone, (including the muggles), was looking at him, the wizard strode forward. A part of him felt relieved when the group split down the middle, giving him access to the gate, and the house beyond.

  
“-lin! Is that James Potter?” 

  
“-oh shit,” 

  
“-Oliver! Quick! Take another ph-”

  
Another flash. 

The Hit-Wizard who had been struggling to shoo the crowd away, stiffened as the wizard approached, his brown eyes rounding. The Hit-Wizard - a boy really - was dressed in the light grey uniform of an apprentice, his blond hair messy. His hands shook as he quickly unlatched at the gate, allowing the wizard to stride past. He seemed to shrink in on himself, as a dark, ugly expression crossed the wizard’s face, and before the Hit-Wizard Apprentice could stop him, he was walking down the path, toward the cottage. 

  
Now that he was further inside the garden, the wizard saw that the roses he and his aunt had planted three years prior, were black, and wilted, ashy in the cold sun. Shuddering, the wizard carefully re-sheathed his wand and walked closer to the Ministry Employees. There were at least twenty Hit-Wizards, along with a couple of Aurors and two Curse Breakers, and while the wizard knew one or two, it was the werewolf in the centre that caught his attention. 

  
He was tall, stringy, and looked to be in his late teens or early twenties. Soft brown hair framed his tried features, scars cutting deeply into his pale skin, and the faint traces of tear marks stained his dusty cheeks. A tattered cardigan and a muggle trench coat completed the look, but even before the werewolf turned around, the wizard could recognise him anywhere. 

  
“James? James!” the cry that left the exhausted werewolf’s lips was hopeful and relieved; a wide smile appeared on his face, and he rushed forward, babbling, brown hair littered with white strands. “Oh, Prongs, you’re alive! I knew it! They said you were dead, but I-”

  
The wizard turned, lips pursed into a thin, hard line, his square spectacles casting a warm ray through the pitch blackness of his shadow. The werewolf stopped short, and his mouth dropped open. He took a couple of steps back. His breath was heavy, green eyes almost gold in the morning light. 

  
“Good morning, Lord Potter,” he breathed, voice cracking.

The wizard’s lips thinned and tapped the end of his wand against his leg. There was a moment’s silence. Even the birds were deathly still. 

  
“Mr Lupin,” the wizard said, voice tight in the morning sun. “I thought you were being questioned by the Aurors,” 

  
“I was,” Lupin stuttered. “However, Dumbledore released me.” 

  
Lupin pointed behind him, and the wizard looked over to where he had indicated. Albus Dumbledore stood in the doorway of the Potter Cottage, hand extended as a studied the runes that Lily had carved into the wood. While he usually wore bright, eccentric clothing, the Hogwarts Headmaster and Leader of the Order of the Phoenix had chosen that morning to wear a pale grey muggle suit. His red-white beard hung in a tightly knit braid around his shoulder, and as he stepped inside, he looked elderly, ancient, and ever so tired. 

  
“Ah, Lord Potter, there you are,” a voice called, and the wizard turned, to find the intimidating, broad-shouldered form of Julius Shacklebolt. “I was wondering when you’d come,” 

  
Julius Shacklebolt stood a few inches taller then the wizard, his ebony features mournful in the glow of the black fire. Golden rings glittered on the Hit-Wizard’s fingers, and his dark blue coat gave him an almost royal approach. The two lords stood in the middle of the path, shaking hands, as together, they shared an understanding. Another family was dead - another friend was gone. 

  
“Julius, how’s your family?” 

  
Julius’ face broke into a small smile, and he nodded behind him. 

  
“Kingsley’s joined the Aurors. He only passed last week, and in that time has rounded up more Death Eaters then I’ve ever done in a lifetime.” Julius shook his head, smile breaking. “But that’s not why you're here, is it Fleamont,” 

  
Fleamont Potter, the second of that name, shook his head.

  
“No, I’m afraid not.” 

His blue eyes trailed off to the house, to the burning fire, and the stench of death that clouded around him. They snapped to Lupin, and Fleamont’s brows furrowed.

  
“Where’s Black? Or Pettigrew?” Fleamont demanded. “Shouldn’t they be here too?” 

  
Lupin shuffled uncomfortably. 

  
“Well,” the werewolf muttered. “You see Lord Potter. Sirius’ been-” 

  
“Sirius Black has been taken to Azkaban,” Julius interrupted.

Fleamont blinked. 

“On what charge?” 

  
“Murder,” Julius said stiffly. Lupin looked at the ground, shaking. 

  
“Sirius - murder?” Fleamont asked, eyebrows rising so that they almost disappeared behind his spiky black hair. “Are you sure you’ve got the right Black? It wasn’t Lestrange in disguise or something?” 

  
Julius shook his head. 

  
“No. It was Black. He killed twelve muggles and Peter Pettigrew. Half of Trafalgar Square got blown up before just we got to him. Bombarda we think, although the aurologist is still trying to figure it out, and from what I could tell, she’s as stumped as we are.”

  
Julius sighed, running a hand down his weathered face. 

  
“We had to Obliviate half the city too - it was a nightmare. We only just got here.” he pointed to Dumbledore. “By the time we did, he was here. We have no idea what happened. Or what happened to Lily, or James, or the boy.” 

  
Fleamont’s head shot up. 

  
“The boy? You mean Henry?” 

  
“We called him Harry,” Lupin interrupted. “You would know that if you chose to visit,” 

  
Fleamont’s eyes narrowed, and he fixed the werewolf an ugly look. 

  
“Yes,” he snarled sarcastically. “That’s exactly what I should have done. It wasn’t like was mourning my wife, now was I?” 

  
Lupin flinched, then seemed to think about it, and his back straightened. 

  
“Listen, Ammi might have died, but that doesn’t mean that you don’t have to be-”

  
“Enough!” Julius interrupted, stepping in front of the two wizards. “Enough!” 

  
The Hit-Wizard looked at Lupin. 

“Remus, go stand by Auror Hemlock, I’m sure she’ll have something you can do.” 

  
Julius indicated to a middle-aged woman holding a clipboard. Lupin paused, looking between Fleamont and the witch, before he clenched his fists, green eyes turning a pale gold. He snarled once and stormed off to join the Auror’s side. Fleamont closed his eyes. 

  
“You didn’t have to do that,” 

  
Julius laughed coldly.   
  


“Yes, I did,” the Hit-Wizard shook his head. “You may be a politician, Monty, but you looked like you were about to rip the guy’s throat open.” 

  
“I wasn’t goi-”

  
Julius held up a hand. 

  
“Calm down,” he rested a hand on Fleamont’s shoulder, nails digging into the wool. “I know this hurts - I know you of all people have the right to be angry - but I don’t think James or Lily would be too happy if you killed their friend. Right now, I need you to go inside and use that Death Magic of yours to work out what happened. Can you do that?” 

  
There was a pause, and then Fleamont nodded. 

“Sure, just get Dumbledore away from the wards, if he tampers with them, I won’t be able to work out what happened.” 

Julius nodded. 

  
“Good, I’ll get Jagadish to shadow you,” 

  
Fleamont nodded and took out his second wand. A gangly brown-skinned man with a dark yellow turban approached, a grim expression on his handsome features. He looked Fleamont up and down, eyes narrowing on the black muggle suit. 

  
“You sure he isn’t a Death Eater?” Jagadish asked.

Julius rolled his eyes. 

  
“If Fleamont Potter was a Death Eater, Breaker Ojal, then I’m a Muggle,” 

  
“What about a Knight of Walpurgis?” 

  
Fleamont was about to answer when a loud pop filled the air. To untrained ears, the sound was soft, as if someone had released cork form a bottle, but for Fleamont, and the rest of the wizards, they knew what it meant. The muggles were looking around, frowning as if they were wondering who had opened a bottle of wine. Together, Fleamont and Julius whirled around, hands-on their wands, and a second later, someone was trying to barge their way past the Hit-Wizard Apprentice. 

  
“Don’t you know who I am?” a woman’s voice was shouting. “I am Arya Kapil! I should be on your list. This house belongs to me!” 

  
Beside him, Julius groaned and looked to the sky. 

  
“Merlin have mercy,” he looked too Fleamont. “I thought she never left her tower,” 

  
Fleamont shrugged and looked over to the gate.

  
“Apparently the death of her favourite grandson changes that opinion,” he said deadpan.

  
Arya Kapil was a small, heavy-set witch, and the top of her head came up to the Apprentice’s chest. Her pitch-black hair was drawn up into a complicated knot on the back of her head, and a pair of golden spectacles hid her green eyes. Unlike the surrounding witches and wizards, or the Ministry Employees, who all wore various forms of muggle dress, Arya Kapil was wearing a deep green and gold robe. 

  
“My grandson and his wife were the ones who were murdered, for Morgana’s Sake!” Arya Kapil was saying, her wand jabbing the side of the Apprentice’s side, a look of furious anger on her wrinkled face. “If you do not let me in, I am going to blow you sky high, and if you get up - if you get up - you’ll have enough broken bones to understand why I am not to be trifled with! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

  
Her Indian accent had grown stronger with each word, until she was an almost incomprehensible mess, that as Julius, Fleamont and Jagadish looked on, the Hit-Wizard Apprentice shook. 

  
“Let her past, Timothy,” Julius called, his black eyes not taring away from Fleamont’s expression. “Lady Kapil is telling the truth,”

  
Arya Kapil’s eyes shot towards Julius, and she lifted her chin in triumphant anger as the gate was opened. A second later, the hundred-year-old witch appeared by Fleamont’s side. She barely came up to his stomach, and as the witch looked up at her eldest grandson, Fleamont unsheathed his wand and pointed it at her. Fourteen inches of hard, Scottish Pine levelled at the woman’s neck, his eyes darkening as Arya looked at him. 

  
“Fleamont,” the woman-who-may-or-may-not-be-his-grandmother said, her eyes crossing as she looked down at the wand that was extended, “what in the name of King Arthur are you doing? Why aren't you at home with Ulia?” 

“What did James call me when he was a baby?” 

  
Fleamont Potter’s voice was soft, yet held a danger that made Julius and Jagadish freeze. Arya Kapil’s lips tightened, and she straightened her back. For a couple of seconds, her eyes rolled back into her head, as she strained her memory to reach back twenty-odd years in the past. Eventually, the witch smiled slightly, and she folded her arms, robed sleeves nestling against her stomach. 

  
“Fly-Bye,” Fleamont relaxed instantly. “James called you Fly-Bye.”

  
Fleamont lowered his wand and nodded. 

  
“She’s Arya Kapil,” 

  
“Hang on one-second young man, you haven’t answered my questions yet!” his grandmother hissed, and she poked her own wand into Fleamont’s side. “What was Dorea going to call you if you were a girl?” 

  
For a second, Julius looked like he wanted to strangle the two, and Jagadish looked on, a faint trail of amusement on his lips. Fleamont rolled his eye. 

  
“Vulpecula,” he sighed. “Vulpecula Morgan Potter.” 

  
Arya lowered her wand, and she shook her head. 

  
“Your mother,” she snapped, “had some of the strangest taste in names. At least Morgan is somewhat respectable.” 

  
Fleamont looked at her, his eyebrows raised. 

  
“You were the one who named your son, and grandson, Fleamont, if my memory serves.” 

  
His grandmother tutted, shaking her finger at him. 

  
“Not so, Fly-Bye, you know that was all Henry’s doing. I just grudgingly accepted it.”

  
Fleamont rolled his eyes and looked back at Julius. The larger man was looking between the two, lips pursed. 

  
“You done?” he asked, voice deep.

Arya and Fleamont nodded.

“Good.” 

  
Turning to look up at the Potter Cottage, he glanced at Albus Dumbledore, (who was still looking up at the runes), and then back to Fleamont and Jagadish. 

  
“I want the two of you to enter the building via the back door. Now, Breakers Ojal and Cups have informed me that before he died, James Potter set up several nasty wards, so be careful. Some are older, and many are illegal, but I guess considering the circumstances, we’ll let that slide,” 

  
He looked over at Arya who was inspecting the top of her house, her lips pursed. If she saw him looking, she said nothing.

  
“So far, we’ve been unable to retrieve the Potters remains. From what Hit-Wizard Arum and Auror Shacklebolt have told us, from scouting the exterior of the cottage, James Potter is either on the stairs or at the bottom. We suspect Lily Evans and their son are elsewhere in the building. Judging from the state of the rafters, there was a battle in the upper left part of the house. However, we have no idea what that room is.”

  
“The nursery,” Fleamont and Arya said at the same time, their voices strained and hard; for a brief second, they looked at each other, faces grim before they let Julius continue. 

“Yes, thank you. The nursery then seems to have the most amount of Dark Magic. Nevertheless, while we assume He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is long gone, we have no idea what spells he might have left behind.” 

  
“His name is Voldemort,” Arya said harshly, and all three wizards flinched, wands extended as they looked around as if waiting for the Dark Lord to appear. “None of this He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named nonsense.”

“Yes, well, that’s all very important, Julius,” Jagadish stated, looking at Julius with an unimpressed expression. “But why does he have to be there,” 

  
Julius sighed and shared an uncomfortable look with Fleamont. 

  
“We need a Death Reader, Jagadish. We have no idea what happened here, and due to Lord Potter’s magical inclination, he is the only one in Europe who can tell us what went on in that house. Under normal circumstances, family members wouldn’t even be allowed to enter the crime scene. However, we need a Death Reader, and well…” 

  
Julius trailed off, looking Fleamont up and down.

  
“Voldemort killed the rest of us, and as such, I’m all you’ve got.” Fleamont finished. 

  
Jagadish scowled, looking a little green. Eventually, he took a breath and nodded. 

  
“Fine! I’ll start working on the backdoor,” 

  
With a sharp look in Fleamont’s direction, the Sikh moved off, arms crossed across his chest. 

  
“What a lovely man,” Arya mused, watching him go, before turning sharply to look at Julius. “Now, Martin was it? May I call you, Martin? You look like a Martin.” 

  
Julius blinked, staring at her.

  
“Now, Martin, if you're going to send my grandson into that house, I’m coming too,” 

  
Julius began to protest, but Arya held up her hand. 

  
“Martin,” Fleamont’s grandmother scowled, “my family died in that house last night, and it took the bloody house elf to tell me about it. So, if you think I’m going to let my other grandson wander inside, then I’m coming too. I was once a Battle-Mage for the Viceroys of India, Martin. Once a Battle-Mage, always a Battle-Mage.” 

  
She crossed her arms and set her stance. 

“I fought Gellert Grindelwald before that jumped up Transfiguration Professor ever did,” she waved a hand in the direction of Albus Dumbledore. “Don’t test me, Martin. You do not want to be my enemy.” 

  
Fleamont looked at Julius, a small smile on his lips. 

  
“Come on, Julius,” he said shrugging. “She’s got a point,” 

  
Sighing deeply, Julius uncrossed his arms and muttered something in Arabic under his breath. Fleamont was fairly sure he was swearing. 

  
“Fine!” he said, looking exasperated. “But don’t blame me when Minister Bagnold finds out.” 

  
Anya Kapil shrugged and rubbed her hands together gleefully. 

  
“Right,” she suddenly announced, eyes set on Albus Dumbledore, “I’m going to talk to my old duelling partner - see you in a second. Fly-Bye. Martin.” 

  
She wondered off down the path, towards the Headmaster. Julius let out a breath. 

“Fly-Bye?” he raised his eyebrows. Fleamont scowled. 

  
“Oh piss off,” 

  
Julius laughed, and together they walked over to a white tent that was being erected a couple of Auror Apprentices. Once it was up, Fleamont quickly changed out of the black muggle suit, and into the body armour that he’d brought. It was tightly fitting, made from reinforced Acromantula spiderwebs, and it was covered with dragon hide scales that covered his chest, knees, and back. A long coat was thrown over his shoulders, a semi-precaution to hide from the muggles, and as Fleamont picked up his wands, sliding them into the holsters at his leg and arm, he paused. He wondered for a second when was the last time he’d worn such a suit. Two, maybe three months ago?

  
Reaching into his shrunken wallet, Fleamont rifled around in the extended magical space. His fingers brushed against a few potion bottles, and a tin of cat food and he was about to swear when his fingers latched around a softly spun cloak. A shit-eating smile rose to Fleamont Potter’s lips, and he pulled out the cloak, the material shining softly in the bobbing orbs above his head. The tent flap opened and in walked his grandmother and Albus Dumbledore. 

  
It was a little startling to see them talking, his grandmother’s pulling the elderly man forward, and as Fleamont’s old Headmaster came into the tent, he paused. Bright blue eyes narrowed as they rested on the cloak, and for just a second, he looked pale. Then those blue eyes snapped up to meet Fleamont. 

  
“Where did you get James Potter’s Invisibility Cloak?” he demanded, and Fleamont saw the wizard reach for his wand. 

Fleamont raised an eyebrow. 

  
“It’s technically mine,” Fleamont said. “I gave it to James during his years at Hogwarts - I thought he could use it to sneak into the kitchens. He returned it a couple of years ago.” 

  
Albus Dumbledore said nothing. Arya humped, rolled her eyes and let go of his arm. She marched over, and with a twist of her hand, she shook off her coloured robes, revealing a deep red, high necked blouse and brown trousers. If Fleamont were to look closely, he could see the shimmering runes and Hindi that was embroidered into the cloth. It would take a touch to activate, and another to send whoever was near her, into a million tiny clouds of dust - or at least, that was the story his Grandfather Henry had liked to tell. Arya twirled her wand in between her outstretched hands, and a soft, sad look rose to her lips. 

  
“Ready?”

  
Fleamont nodded and placed the cloak around his shoulders. The room darkened suddenly, the Invisibility Cloak shuddering as Death Magic weaved around the room. The Hit-Wizards paused, the Aurors whipping their wands towards him. Everyone paused. 

“Oh, look at you all,” Arya muttered. “Seen Death Magic my arse!”

  
She picked up a small backpack that Fleamont had placed in front of him and strung it over her shoulder. She walked to the tent flap and paused, looking back. 

“Shall we go in?” she asked. 

“Yes,” 

Jagadish had just finished un-warding the backdoor to the Potter Cottage when Fleamont and Arya came round the corner. Unlike the front door, which was broken, and kicked in beyond repair, the dark purple paint was smooth on the back. A golden handle signified the entrance, and above the doorway, was the same runes that were on the front. Jagadish stepped back, wiping his hand across his brow. 

“Lily Evans knew her shit,” he said, almost appreciably. “I’ve got no idea how He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named managed to get in. It’s like swimming through mud - mud and fire and a tsunami all in one, a ready to bite you, and rip you to pieces.” 

  
He looked Fleamont up and down. 

  
“You look ready for battle.” 

  
Fleamont shrugged, as Arya pressed her hand against the door, ear resting on the wood.

  
“His wife was an Unspeakable,” Arya responded, looking up at Jagadish with hard eyes as she concentrated, straining to hear. “She made it for him.” 

  
“Your wife?” Jagadish raised his eyebrows. “Do I know her?”

Fleamont shrugged, twisting his wedding ring around and around his finger. 

  
“Possibly. She died three months ago.”

  
The Curse Breaker paused, looking uncomfortable. 

  
“I’m sorry,” he eventually said. 

Fleamont shrugged, looking down. 

  
“It’s alright,” he said, smiling softly. “She didn’t go quietly,” 

  
Before Jagadish could respond, or press for any more information, Arya held up a manicured hand, her rings glittering, sending rainbows to fracture across the cobbles.

  
“There’s someone in the house,” 

  
Fleamont’s wands were in both of his hands before Jagadish could even move, and the Breaker jumped back as Arya did the same. 

“Merlin,” he hissed, shaking his head. “You two are jumpy, aren’t you,” 

  
The two gave him a thin look. 

  
“If Snakeface is inside,” Arya hissed, her lips thin. “I don’t want to go in, wands blazing and shooting spells. We go in like Slytherins alright. Cautious and soft. If anything moves, kill it.” 

  
She paused, tongue in between her lips, and then took a step back. 

“Alright, on three. One. Two. Three,” 

  
Jagadish kicked the door, and it opened with a small thump. Together the three moved in, wands extended. They came into the kitchen, a tiny little room, with yellow walls and a round table in the corner of the room. A set of dead sunflowers curled over a glass vase, and the ceiling above was buckled. A loud, high hissing noise suddenly swelled to life. It sputtered out a crockpot, and something sleek and red, shoot towards them like a rocket. 

A spell swelled around them, and Arya raised her hand. But the red thing came through, and before anyone could move, the demon sank its teeth into Fleamont’s leg. He hissed, eyes blowing wide, as he struggled not to shout. Pain shot up and down his right leg, as the little demon began to scratch at the mesh fabric. 

  
“What the fuck is that?” Arya hissed, gasping, her wands pointed directly at it. 

Carefully, Fleamont snatched the little red ball of fur from around his ankle, and by the scruff of its neck, lifted it up. Light flared from between the Jagadish’s hands, and as he gently placed them onto the side of the house, the building shuddered. Webs appeared in front of him, and he closed his eyes. A second later, the electric lights flicked on. They spluttered, and Fleamont found himself staring into the blown-out, electric green eyes of a kneazle. 

  
The kneazle paused, fur softening at it took in Fleamont’s face, and it slowly relaxed. Old and new blood was matted around its lips, its body shaking like a leaf and for a couple of seconds, Fleamont felt sorry for the creature. Then the kneazle shook its head, twisted sharply, and with a yelp, the wizard dropped the cat. It sat on the floor, licking its paws, and looking incredibly pleased with itself. 

  
“That’s Spite,” Fleamont growled, tapping the side of his leg with his wand and a second later, the cut healed, and the fabric mended itself. “It’s Lily’s cat. I’m surprised he’s still alive.” 

  
“Mrs Potter called it Spite?” Jagadish asked as the kneazle paused in its licking to stare at him. “Why?” 

  
“It was named something else. Mottle or Moggie or something like that.” Fleamont muttered as the kneazle slunk out the open door. “James renamed him. Henry almost killed it once by knocking over a vase.” 

“Are you going to stay there all day?” Arya had entered the laundry room and was coming out, a sharp look on her face. “Fleamont is anyone here,” 

  
Shuffling from foot to foot, Fleamont closed his eyes and allowed his magic to swallow the house. There was a legend in the Potter Family, a legend, that judging from the evidence might as well be true. It wasn’t common knowledge. In fact, for the past several hundred years, the Potters had tried everything to make sure it had stayed out of the history books. That was until He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named found out. 

  
In truth, everyone from the Ministry of Magic, to the Muggleborn down the street, had heard of the Peverell Brothers, just very few people chose to believe it. How Death had given and then tricked the Three Brother’s, how even they couldn’t outrun them, no matter how far they tried, and while the story had changed and shifted by the time Beedle the Bard wrote it down, very few people believed that the Deathly Hallows were real. 

  
The Potter Family said otherwise. 

  
Ever since Iolanthe Peverell married Hardwin Potter in the mid-fourteenth century, the Cloak of Invisibility had passed from father to son, son to daughter and mother to child, and so on, until it ended up in Fleamont’s hands. Along with such a gift, came worse things. Death Magic was always prevalent in the eldest Potter child, and while the art of bringing back the dead was illegal, the magic surrounding it was not. As such, came the other tale. That each of the Brothers Three, that Antioch, Cadmus and Ignotus Peverell were sons of Death. 

  
That was one story, the Potters were unsure of.

Nevertheless, as Fleamont delved deep into his family’s magic, the world around him shuddered and seemed too slow. The kitchen burred, the ceiling fixed itself, and in his mind’s eye, the time around him flicked back. The sun sunk beneath the kitchen window, the moon shining high in the night, and when Fleamont opened his eyes, he was standing alone. 

  
It was seven o’clock, and Samhain was nigh.

  
_Lily Evans was in the kitchen, standing over the stove, cooking a pot of pumpkin soup, in the very crockpot Spite had clambered out of. Her long, auburn hair was hanging loosely around her shoulders, so that it curled and twisted, her wand tucked gently behind her ear. She was humming, a soft muggle lullaby, that Fleamont didn’t know and was dressed in a deep purple dress._

  
Beside her, on a highchair, sat her son. He was round-faced, and chubby, with black hair and had the same green eyes as his mother. A plate of some mushed peas and cold meat sat in front of him, and he was chewing softly on the food, eyes never leaving her hair as she moved around the kitchen. 

  
_There was a knock at the door, and a second later, James walked into the room._

_  
People often said James looked like him, and while it had been over five years since they’d talked, Fleamont could see why. Spiky black hair framed high cheekbones, a warm smile brightening as he found his wife. He was tall too, and as he came over, James rested his chin on Lily’s shoulder. Fleamont shifted from foot to foot, feeling a little weirded out. From what he could tell the only difference between the two, was that James’ skin was a few shades lighter then Fleamont’s own, and his eyes were a deep brown. Fleamont’s were a grey-blue, a leftover from the Black Family that his mother belonged to._

_  
From the door, Spite came into the house. In its mouth, there was a mouse. Carefully the kneazle dropped the creature, watched it run about for a couple of seconds, and then with a pounce, crushed its windpipe._

  
Shuddering, Fleamont closed his eyes, moving past the shades, and concentrating on the house as a whole. He sighed, and when he opened his eyes again, his grandmother was looking up at him, her hands gently touching the sides of his face. 

  
“Monty,” she whispered, “are you alright?” 

  
Swallowing, Fleamont nodded. 

“I’m fine,” his voice cracked. 

  
The highchair that Henry had been sitting on hours earlier was empty and clean, the soup was most likely eaten, and no one alive was in the house. 

  
“We’re alone,” 

  
Arya slumped, looking defeated. 

  
“Are they alive?” 

  
Fleamont didn’t need to ask who she was talking about. He shook his head. His grandmother pursed her lips, and looked past him, staring into Jagadish’s eyes. 

  
“What’s your name?” she shook her head, interrupting. “Never mind, I’m calling you Raam. I had a friend from Bihar called Raam. You look like him.” 

  
Jagadish looked at Arya and then to Fleamont. He had an expression on his face that said, _’Is she always like this?’. ‘Yes,’_ was the response. 

  
“Anyway, Raam, I need you to disable all the wards,” 

  
“All of them?” Jagadish asked. “Are you serious?” 

  
Arya nodded. 

  
“Yes, come on, I don’t have all day,” she grabbed Fleamont by his arm. “Fleamont and I will search the rest of the house. Shout if you need us.” 

  
Before Jagadish could respond, Arya grabbed Fleamont by the arm and into the hallway. 

“Why do you want him to remove all the wards?” Fleamont asked as Arya let him go. “Won’t it ruin the defences?” 

  
“The defences are already ruined. Ruining them, even more, won’t matter nor harm anyone.” Arya put in, tapping the underside of the staircase, almost knocking over an ugly vase that sat on a chest of drawers. 

  
Fleamont lunged to catch it as his grandmother entered the living room. Above the lights flickered. Gently, Fleamont placed the vase on the draws again, noted the small cat bed were Sprite must have slept and continued down the corridor. 

  
The front door was open and wide, a pram in the corner, while the inside of the house was hidden by one of Lily’s spells. Now that Fleamont was inside, he could see people milling around and talking. Albus Dumbledore was talking to Julius, and ever so often people were glancing inside trying to see past the wards. Remus Lupin was helping the Aurors, and the gathering of muggles and wizard-kind had doubled, and Fleamont snarled, glared at them behind a magic wall. Why couldn’t they just leave? 

  
Glass crunched underneath him as he walked down the corridor. From what he could tell a rather nasty spell had blown out all the photographs, and paper swirled around the room in shredded chaos. Some of them were still moving, panicked and shouting silent words, while others were dead, empty and gone. The light hadn’t turned on in the hall. Fleamont slid to the switch and tried turning it on. Nothing. Rising his wand, he cast a light. The bulb was shattered. Sighing, he lowered his wand. The Lumos landed on a shoe. Then a bloody foot. Then - 

  
Fleamont stopped. The air disappeared from his lungs, and suddenly the wizard found himself on the ground, staring at the corpse. He didn’t have to touch James Potter to know that he was dead, he could feel the Avada Kedavra curling off him in a sickly green light. Seeing James as a corpse solidified the memory, and as Fleamont stared at his younger cousin, his heart beat too harshly. 

  
It had been a long time since he's fully spoken to his cousin, five long years since the fuss at his wedding, and while Fleamont had forgiven his cousin tenfold, James had not. Now, it was too late. As the morning light touched the darkness of James’ hair, turning it a soft brown, Fleamont’s breath caught in his throat. They weren’t just similar, he noted, they were almost identical. If it wasn’t for the ten year age gap, then they would have been twins - except of course the eyes.

  
A wicked smile nestled on James’ face, a contradictory to the usually fearful that crossed those murdered by the Dark Lord. It was sarcastic. Knowing. A joyful _‘I got you’,_ before his death. Half of his clothes were destroyed, and as Fleamont searched through the past, picking out the death, he saw James Potter being blown sky-high, as a small bomb was set off. A smile rose to Fleamont’s face. James and his bloody bombs. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named hadn’t expected that. But then the smile faded, and Fleamont winced as the green light flashed. 

  
James’ body stilled. 

  
“I’ve found a wand,” his grandmother called, as she came around the corner, carrying it. “I think it’s-”

She stopped dead when she saw James. Her lips tightened, and for just a second, Fleamont thought she was about to burst into tears. Then Arya Kapil was straightening, tucking James’ wand into her pocket, and gently coming over to Fleamont’s side. She crouched down next to her grandson, and with much more strength then Fleamont thought a hundred-year-old witch should ever have, pulled him to his feet. She wiped off some imaginary dust and then patted his cheek softly. 

  
“We knew this was going to be hard,” she said softly. “Come on, Fly-Bye. We have other rooms to search.” 

  
The guest bedroom was almost perfect, and except for the faint smell of death and gunpowder, was mostly untouched. The potion room was a disaster. Most of the ceiling was missing, revealing a giant gaping hole, into the attic bedrooms. A half-melted cauldron sat upside down by the door, along with melted potions, and a dissolved potioneer cabinet completed the chaos. The left wall, the one which led out into the hallway and the stairwell, was blown to smithereens, most-likely a repercussion of James’ bomb. 

  
“What the fuck happened in here?” Arya whispered, her eye widening as Fleamont kicked the cauldron. 

Turning, Fleamont looked at her. 

  
“I’ll tell you in a minute - let’s find Lily.” 

  
_‘And Henry’_ , was left unsaid. 

  
There was a sharp bang, a wild shriek, and a second later, Jagadish came around the corner. There was a crash, and bits of broken porcelain scattered into the hallway.

  
“I’ve disabled the wards,” he said, breathless, sweat rolling down his forehead. “Although if anyone wanted that vase then-”

  
He paused, freezing at the sight of James’ body. 

  
“Merlin,” 

  
“Yeah,” Fleamont said, as Arya reached into her pack and pulled out a blanket, covering the corpse. “Let’s move on.”

  
Carefully, they gently walked passed James’ body, careful not to disturb him, or move the body. It was a dangerous expedition climbing the stairs, for the bomb that James had released had made the staircase unstable. A part of Fleamont wondered how He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had climbed the stairs but put it to the back of his mind. 

  
Five minutes later, they were on the landing. 

  
Other then the blown indoor, most of the landing looked to be intact. Like downstairs, the photographs were missing, and glass, once again crunched as the three moved towards the bedroom. First, they checked James and Lily’s room, and once they found nothing other than the usual bedroom things, they moved onto the nursery. Fleamont’s stomach fell into the potion room as they found Lily. 

  
Sprawled out across the floor, still wearing the same purple dress from earlier in the day, Lily also had a smile on her lips. Except this one wasn’t mischievous. It wasn’t one of _‘I got you,_ ’, but rather, _‘I won,’._ Dust clung to her cheeks and hair, green eyes glassy and dull, and her skin was turning a soft turquoise. Her wand lay a few inches away from her, and she wasn’t moving. Suddenly it hurt to breathe, the dark magic thick and swollen in the room, that even with the giant hole in the roof, and half of the walls missing, the air was clogged and matted. 

Toys and stuffed animals were thrown across the floor, the wardrobe on its side and somewhere in the potion room, they could see a bookshelf. With a jolt, Fleamont realised this was Henry’s room. The cot sat in the middle of the room, knocked over, blankets and stuffed toys scattered on the hardwood floor. In the cold light of the morning, there lay a blue blanket inside an empty cot. Fleamont shared a look with his grandmother. 

  
Taking a deep breath, Fleamont moved passed Arya and Jagadish and into the hallway. Carefully, he tucked himself up into the corner, hands on his knees. From somewhere in his vision, he noted his grandmother was already covering Lily’s body with a blanket. Jagadish came to stand beside him. He said something, but Fleamont was already gone. Once again, the rooms shifted, the air around him clear, and he was sitting in the corner. 

  
It was nine o’clock, and Hallowe’en was nigh. 

  
_The door exploded. Bits of purple wood and a golden knocker shattered inwards, spreading across the carpet, as James and Lily rushed out. James’ eyes widened, and he handed their son to her, his hands shaking._

  
_“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off-”_

  
_A high pitched laughed echoed around the room._ It curled into Fleamont, making his bones shake, and he shut his eyes tight. _Lily sprinted up the stairs, and slammed the nursery door with a bang. There was a bang, as the bomb went off. James was flying, laughing, and then -_

  
 _"Avada Kedavra!”_

  
Fleamont bit down on his knuckles as James Potter hit the staircase. Dead. 

  
_Lord Voldemort walked forward, pale-faced and dark-haired. Then He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named flicked his wrist, and he was flying. Screaming echoed around the room, Lily calling out James’ name, as Henry wailed and wailed and wailed._ Shut up! Fleamont wanted to shout. But it was too late. _A small smile was on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s lips as he landed on the staircase, softly and without the word. With a flick of his wrist, he forced open the door and looked inside. Lily stood with her back to the crib, Henry’s chubby hands peering over the edge. Her face was white and pale, arms outstretched as if she could protect him._

_  
“Not Harry,” the voice that came out of Lily Evans were pleading; however they held confidence and power, and the anger that lingered in her terrified eyes burned through. “Not Harry, please, not Harry,”_

_  
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named studied her almost lazily._

  
_“Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now…”_

  
_Lily pulled herself up, furious and burning._

  
_“Not Harry, please no,” the confidence in her voice didn’t drift, “take me, kill me instead-”_

  
_“This is my last warning-”_

_“Not Harry! Please…have mercy…have mercy… Not Harry! Please - I’ll do anything!”_

  
_“Stand aside - stand aside, girl-”_

  
_He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was cut off by Lily charging, wand extended, her wand flashing. There was a pause, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named ducked, and then a green light filled the room. It erupted, piercing through Lily like a sword. The witch smiled, grinning viciously at He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and then collapsed._

  
_He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named moved passed Lily’s corpse and stared down at the boy. There was a moment’s pause, as he studied the baby, looking him up and down as if judging his worth. Henry began to cry, sob, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named raised his wand._

  
_It glowed green. The spell left He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s lips, and then - Nothing._ _For a flicker of a second, the air stilled, a quiet before the storm. Then everything exploded._

  
Fleamont was brought out of his trance, shuddering and shaking, gasping for breath, as he clutched at arms. Arya was once again in front of him, her lips tight and furious, and for a second Fleamont thought his grandmother was going to scold him. But she stayed still, her voice even, and calm. 

  
“What happened?” 

  
Although Fleamont was struggling to catch his breath, the wizard gasped, coughing, the air thick and dark. 

  
“Henry - he - Henry - he-” Fleamont shook his head. “He-Who-”

  
“Voldemort,” Arya interrupted, and Fleamont shuddered. 

  
“Vol-Volde-Voldemort was - Henry he - Oh Merlin-”

  
Panic rose, enveloping Fleamont, and his world began to spin. He clawed at his grandmother’s arms, gasping and retching. 

  
“Shit,” 

  
He felt his grandmother move away from him, and a second later, Jagadish was gripping his shoulders. 

  
“Hey, Potter,” a shake. “Potter, calm down. Lady Kapil it’s not working!” 

  
Something cold and disgusting was forced down his throat, and his grandmother was back in view. She was gripping his arms again, breathing gently along with him, and a second later Fleamont’s vision began to still. He still felt shaken, in fact, if it wasn’t for the potion Fleamont was sure he would have passed out by now. It was too much - it wasn’t possible.

  
“Now, Fleamont,” Arya said calmly. “What happened?” 

“Voldemort - he’s - he’s - of fuck - he’s dead!” 

  
He felt his grandmother stiffen. 

  
“What?”

  
Fleamont nodded, still not quite believing what he’d seen. 

  
“He’s dead,” he took a breath. “Henry defeated him,” 

  
There was a pause, and then Jagadish swore.

  
“Then, where the fuck is my great-grandson?” Arya snarled.

There was a loud cough, and Jagadish, Arya and Fleamont turned around sharply, to see Albus Dumbledore at the bottom of the stairs. Around him, slowly making their way into the building as Julius and a couple Aurors; the Headmaster of Hogwarts looked sadly at James Potter. Then he sighed and gave the three wizards a small, strained smile. 

“I think,” he said softly, almost grandfatherly, “this is where I come in,” 

**Author's Note:**

> I will try to upload as frequently as possible, however, this might take some time, and I suspect that the uploads will be few and far between. I apologise for this. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy this story. 
> 
> Illa Prometheus


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